


Pas de Trois

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Rare Honey [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Molly, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Multi, Pansexual Character, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11989818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Molly Hooper is happy with her life, raising her son Alex and back at work at Bart's. There hasn't been any romance in her life for a few years, but Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes are determined to change that. Molly fears that she will damage their relationship or be left out in the cold, so it's up to them to show her how much love they have to share.This is a sequel to Honey, which does not have to be read to follow this plot line, but it would probably help a good deal. There will be appearances by Sherlock, John, Rosie from time to time.**I INTEND this to be five chapters in total, but sometimes my works...grow...so this may end up longer**





	1. Plie; The Warm Up

**Author's Note:**

> So we're clear, going in, this will be all about a romantic and sexual relationship between three people; if that's not your thing, you may wish to move along. If you want to give it a try, please do so! The dynamics of our characters are as follows: Molly is bisexual, Greg is pansexual, and Mycroft is gay but he happens to be in love with a woman. Alex, Molly's three year old son, is gender-fluid and sometimes wears dresses or other items of "girls" clothing.

**_Then_ **

          Molly was a coward.

          But then, she’d always been a coward. Since childhood; hiding under blankets, tucking herself against her mum’s side, clinging to her dad’s hand. A mousy, timid, painfully introverted girl growing into a self-conscious, socially awkward, and meek teenager. University was different, for a while. Having lost her dad mid-way through the first year, she was awash in grief, numbed by its heavy, ever-present weight.

          It allowed her a much-needed remove between her shyness and her desire. She didn’t _want_ to be scared to go up to people and strike up conversation; it would be great if the idea of a party didn’t break her out in a clammy sweat; standing up for herself shouldn’t be a near impossibility. As the immediacy of her loss slowly lessened, awareness came upon her…of a feeling of fatalism. Life could be cruel and short and it for damn sure came with no guarantees of happiness, no matter how good and kind and law-abiding you were. If her dad couldn’t escape despite his shining characteristics, then what was the point?

          Richard Hooper had died at the age of forty-one, following a brief and brutal illness; somehow he had remained cheerful to the end, smiling in the face of pain, diminished energy, battered dignity, and the inescapable certainty of death. Only in those short times when he thought himself alone did her father reveal a face of torment, worry, exhaustion, regret. It was the regret that stuck with her most, in the months after his funeral. What had he to be regretful of, aside of course from leaving his family behind, dying too soon? A handsome, funny man, a wonderful husband, adored father, successful business man, big-hearted philanthropist, a beloved fixture of the neighborhood…he had a beautiful wife, two well-behaved and intelligent children and left behind no debts. What ate at him in the quiet moments he stared at the wall, looking so lost?

          Accidentally overhearing her dad’s soft conversation with his business partner one day, Molly stood with hot tears falling from her eyes as she listened to him expressing regret for living such a safe life. He’d never gotten the fast car, taken the big trip, made any questionable choices…every moment of his life had been lived within the lines. “Where’s the colour?” He’d asked William, sounding bitter, “My life never became sloppy or reckless or silly, I just did what was expected of me as if there was no other course. I don’t regret my family, but I wish just once I’d done something stupid.”

          Molly was unable to escape a feeling that time was ticking away. She was young, healthy and so quiet and biddable that suddenly she feared losing out on life. Her dad’s words haunted her, replaying over and over until she wanted to erase them from her memory.

          Armed with her new nihilist attitude, the formerly shy and studious young woman dared herself daily. Without changing the core of herself, she changed utterly. Gone was her timidity, and she reached eagerly for the seedy, glamorous, silly sides of life. A string of one-night stands, brief affairs and misguided relationships all extinguished naturally; her studies began to consume her more deeply as she directed her passion towards medical research; still, Molly sought out a social life, took short trips to Europe with friends, collected and lost a flurry of pen pals, and buried herself in books on poetry, philosophy and travel, took up and abandoned smoking, flirted with an addiction to amphetamines, fell in unrequited love with a professor and quietly slipped into a relationship with her housemates, Anya and Paolo.

          It was a slow slide, one she was not to this day entirely convinced any of them had recognized until it was upon them. It started with intense talks long into the night, casual bed-sharing when their rather grotty flat was too cold to sleep alone, the intimacy of three people sharing a loo, clothes swapped and forgotten, notes trailing from one room to another, petty arguments, dramatic sulking, and eager reconciliation. Anya and Paolo were gorgeous in a beautifully human way; the type of people that could never be models but were possessed of the type of flaws which somehow make them all the more appealing, rendered lovely by their personality and charm and presence.

          Anya taught Molly how to blow smoke rings and cocks, loaned her short skirts and push up bras, and snuggled in bed with her on frosty mornings, laughing under the covers rather than drag themselves out to their seven a.m. anatomy class. Anya was the first adult female friend Molly had ever had, and the intensity of their relationship continuously caught her by surprise. Parting from her at the holidays left a sharp ache deep in Molly’s center; she longed for Anya’s effervescent flirting, her sunny personality.

          Paolo, dear Paolo, was a tall, rangy pillar of energy, always drinking black coffee in favor of eating, chewing uppers to get through his grueling course load and shifts as a waiter. Without even trying, he increased her confidence, merely by matter-of-factly treating her as if she was beautiful and bold and self-assured. He taught her a few words of stumbling Italian, howling with laughter all the while; he loved to kiss her on each cheek and then on the mouth—an action which never ceased to break her out in a flush—and he hummed snatches of odd songs, insisted she read poetry he loved, and his arms fit perfectly around her when she was having a nightmare.

          They were too perfect not to be a couple, and of course they were a couple. Molly, waking early one morning, looked at them in the thin stream of winter sunshine fighting to reach their bed and felt her heart do a belly flop inside her chest. She was in love. With two people. Two people who were in love with one another.

          Paolo stopped her from leaving the bed when she would have snuck away.  
“Where are you going, _topolina_?” His firm hand slipped around her thin wrist, tugging her back into their warm nest.

          Her embarrassed protestations that she was intruding on their relationship meandered into a halting confession; Molly’s tormented apologies were softly stoppered by Anya’s silky lips on hers, tasting faintly of strawberries and toothpaste and sleep. Paolo’s rough thumbs brushed away the traces of her tears as he crawled over to embrace them both. In the beginning it was a hazy daydream of sex and cuddling, but as time went on, for Molly at least, it was about loving and being loved. Molly, meek, mild, mousy little Molly Hooper was in love with two people and it _worked_.

          Over the course of several years they were three of the happiest, most content trio to be found. Even when Paolo lost his scholarship and had to get additional jobs as a busboy and barista to pay his bills, and when Anya’s father demanded that she return to Cirencester for the summer holidays rather than remain in their shared student accommodations near Bethnal Green, they managed to remain cheerful. When Molly was offered a very prestigious internship at the University Hospital in Birmingham, she wept over her impending loneliness, but ultimately decided it was too good a chance to explore her interest in cellular pathology, and urged by both Paolo and Anya not to be a fool and miss out, she accepted.

          It wasn’t any one person’s fault. It wasn’t. Molly believed that. It was just…life. Nature. Two by two, and all that.

          The phone calls lessened slightly in frequency, although she was so busy she didn’t notice at first. The loving, longing frustration diminished. It was nature’s way; filling a vacuum. Molly left, and her loves turned to one another and found that they didn’t need her quite as much as they had thought.

          Molly was very understanding. She wept in private, but in their presence she hugged them both and enthused over their decision to move in with Anya’s parents until the baby was born and they could plan a proper wedding. She agreed to Anya’s heartfelt desire for her to be a bridesmaid, but evinced no surprise when somehow those positions were filled by sisters and cousins. Molly hunted out the biggest, most elaborate card she could find, and bought them a crystal punch bowl—the kind of thing the three of them would have once screeched with laughter over for its over-the-top gaudiness—for which they had registered. She posed for pictures and smiled; she danced with uncles and cousins and neighbors and smiled; she shook hands and kissed cheeks and smiled; she let Paolo introduce her to his family as “my old housemate Molly” and smiled. She agreed with Anya’s mother that they were a perfect couple, though as that good woman pointed out with a sort of wink-wink-nudge-nudge attitude that left her slightly ill, “soon to be three.” And still she smiled.

          It was the longest day she could recall since her dad’s funeral.

          After years of feeling strong and bold and loved, Molly suddenly found herself frighteningly alone. She had lost her ability to trust (although it was no one’s fault, it wasn’t, it _wasn’t_ ), and her fearless attitude. Losing the two of them had been devastating—still was devastating, in a way she could not have expressed had there been anyone who could have listened and understood—and Molly shut herself off from the idea of feeling that kind of soul-shattering anguish ever again. There was a reason why relationships were between two people. It was the natural order, pairing off. No one could love two people equally.

 

**_Now_ **

          Molly was a coward.

          Here she had two kind, lovely, charming and intelligent men offering their love and attendance, and she was terrified of a repeat of her devastation following Anya and Paolo. Only this time she feared it would be worse; she was an adult who knew the exact shape and weight of loneliness.

          Greg had been on the periphery of her working life for many years, always a bit of a shadow figure as long as there was Sherlock Holmes to dazzle and distract her. He’d been a colleague of sorts, a pleasant acquaintance who could always bring a smile to her face, someone she respected and admired. As a man—as an object of affection—he hadn’t entered her radar for years. It was only after her long, long fixation on Sherlock had died a natural, painful death, that Molly had come to see him as anything other than a passably known mate to lift a pint to on the rare occasions she accompanied the other lab rats from Bart’s to The Black Lab.

          Already unsettled by months of stressful child minding in the wake of Mary Watson’s death, and feeling cracked and crippled by her humiliating and emotionally draining forced confession of love to Sherlock, Molly had been unprepared for finding out she was pregnant and facing motherhood alone. Once the shock had worn off, after the harrowing conversation with Li Jie—bloody hell, did he think _she_ felt ready to become a parent?—Molly had swung between persistent worry and a tentative anticipation. Honestly, at that point in her life she had come to feel that she was going to end up alone, certainly childless, and so motherhood felt like a sort of wonderful impossibility.

          The reality of impending single motherhood had hit her with ferocity once the shock and joy had worn off. Coming upon her having a hormone-driven but nevertheless very real meltdown in the morgue one day, Greg hadn’t wasted time asking what was wrong. He just hugged her until she stopped crying, and then offered her his handkerchief and a kind ear. “You’re to call me any time you feel panicky, right?” He’d thumbed his name and mobile number into her phone, smiling encouragingly, firmly assuring her that he was there for her, that they all were. “We make family of friends when we come to this point in our lives,” Greg had comforted her, “You’re not alone. And for God’s sake, set up a password on your phone, anyone could get in!”

          Following that, Molly had stopped hiding the news, stopped avoiding her mum’s calls. She’d weathered the storm of shock and slightly avid interest, accepted gratefully the offers of help, and felt a warm kindle in her heart when Greg smiled at her across the pub, lifting her orange juice to his salute, as her face lit with a glow that had nothing to do with pregnancy. They didn’t become instant best mates, or even spend all that much extra time together, but Greg was a man of solid and sure foundation, and his presence in the months that followed was often comforting, even if brief. He was a practical man, helping her set up the crib—with much swearing and flinging of tools—or gently bullying her into signing up for a meal service so she could eat healthy meals that she didn’t have to stand for too long preparing.

          Greg was late night calls answered in a sleepy voice, gruffly assuring her that it wasn’t too late to call and of course she wasn’t going to be a rubbish mum. He was unexpected cups of decaf tea and a cheerful wink; a warm hand on her shoulder before he hurried after Sherlock and John. Without being in any way like her father, Greg gave Molly that same feeling of secure warmth and affection, tempered with the relative closeness of their ages and the unspoken fact that they were compatible adults.

          Over time a softly dawning realization had come to Molly that she loved him. It was romantic, but it was something else, too; a deeper flavour she couldn’t name, but which filled her with comfort and peace. It was impossible, of course, as he was still married, albeit to the worst woman in London. And then it was not entirely impossible, as Greg, without fanfare, moved out of his home and filed for divorce. Time, Molly thought, time for him to heal and her to see if there was anything between them besides longing on her part.

          It didn’t matter that he fit so nicely into her life, filling a hole Molly had been unaware existed until Greg Lestrade stepped into it. He was like fresh water flooding a stagnant pool, washing away the hurts of the past without ever knowing what a favour he had done her. Perhaps she was just viewing her feelings through gratitude. So yes, a little time to spy out the lie of the land; explore the emotional landscape they found themselves in.

          So she offered her quiet consolation for the mangled end of his marriage, and made sure to have fresh coffee brewed when she knew to expect him in her domain at Bart’s. Molly listened to his half-drunk rambles interspersed with tears when he called her late one night, assuring him in a soothing tone that of course it wasn’t too late, of course she didn’t mind, of course it was going to be okay. Time would give him a fresh perspective, Molly had counseled, telling herself not to hold out hope that he would ever view her as more than a friend. But time…well, it was said to do many things, wasn’t it? Perhaps this once time would be her friend.

          Only time had not proved to be her friend. Whilst she waited quietly for him to find closure and healing, Mycroft Holmes had stealthily stolen his heart.

          Mycroft.

          Molly had felt the tug of loss when John Watson so casually mentioned that Greg and Mycroft were dating. It took her some time to realize that it wasn’t just the knowledge of having lost a chance with Greg, but that she had also worried over her friendship with Mycroft Holmes. Somehow this most diffident and seemingly cold of men had come to be very dear to her. Without Molly quite noticing it, she was a little in love with him. Once it occurred to her, Molly had gone numb with embarrassment; there was very little hope that he hadn’t read it on her, but being the ineffable gentleman he was, nary a word had crossed his lips until that dinner at Greg’s, the three of them tipsy on wine and somehow revealing more than any of them—aside from crafty Mycroft, perhaps—had intended.

          Out of all the many wonderful friends who had stepped forward and helped her these last few years, Mycroft had been one of the most steadfast. In his own unobtrusive way he had provided support; extra security, random anonymous deliveries of flowers, baby clothes, or full-course meals from five-star restaurants. He occasionally brought books for Alex, and he listened without judgement to her, and despite his claims to the contrary, Mycroft had lifted her out of her initial despair and given her hope for the future. It wasn’t one-sided, as she had feared at first. On the surface no one could picture Molly Hooper as a friend or helpmate for a man as intelligent and powerful as Mycroft, but she had come to realize that her gentle nature and non-judgmental offer to listen to his veiled references to his troubles had soothed him in some way.

          When he came to her, taut with nerves and filled to the brim with pain over his mother’s extremely grudging acceptance of his presence at Sherlock and Eurus’ recitals at Sherrinford, her continued cold silences and refusal to address him directly, Molly had done the unthinkable and hugged him. Drawing his head down to her much shorter shoulder, she had kissed his cheek and stroked his hair and whispered over and over, “She’s your mother, of course she still loves you. Of course she does, Mycroft, of course she loves you.”

          It was a testament to their intimacy that he hadn’t disappeared after shedding one or two very private tears on the neck of her jumper. After, she made him a cup of cocoa and put his hand on her extremely pregnant belly and held his wavering eyes with her own, “I already love my baby so much, Mycroft, that I cannot imagine never loving him, no matter what he has done. Your mum still loves Eurus, doesn’t she? Despite all her…actions. So yes of course, your mum loves you still; she’s just reacting poorly to so many devastating revelations. Give her time.”

          That was what she said, all the while wanting to hunt Violet Holmes down and tear a strip out of her for her neglect of her eldest child. Mycroft's formidable exterior was fragile in un-glimpsed places, tiny chinks allowing one to sense the vulnerable man underneath. His mother had torn him wide open and left him alone and bleeding. Molly couldn’t understand how she could treat her child that way, no matter what horrible decisions had been thrust upon him at a young age.

          It was a moment that cracked the very polite, somewhat stilted and very definitely duty-related nature of their relationship; more genuine warmth flowed between them. Molly had long considered him a friend by that point, but it wasn’t until later that she understood that to Mycroft, she had only just become a friend. The two of them were an odd pair, but she thought the oddity of it leant a charm to their friendship. They rarely shared such emotionally devastating moments after that, but the awareness that the other was ready to stalwartly defend the other existed between them. Their friendship had carried on even after Mycroft and Greg became a couple, and due to Greg’s impulsive and generous nature, the three of them had become a funny little trio.

          A heady moment of possibility had flashed before her eyes when Mycroft suggested the solution to their problem; but it was quickly followed by the crush of memory.

          _Just put it out of your mind_ , Molly had raged on her cab ride home, aware of a deep desire to turn around and run back into their arms. _It would only end in a broken heart and wrecked friendships_. Whenever she felt the desire to succumb, to tell them that yes of course she loved them and wanted to snatch at the golden ring before her ride came to an end and the possibility was no more, Molly thought of Paolo and she thought of Anya and she knew that there was no way she would not be crushed by the loss of Mycroft and Greg. “I cannot survive losing you,” Molly wanted to tell them. Instead she set up barriers and made it clear friendship was all that was on offer.

          Despite Greg’s teasing and Mycroft’s sneaky tactics, Molly had remained firm for months, resisting their allure. Then came the week before Christmas, and Mycroft's softly purred promise to court her. _Heaven help me_ , Molly thought, _I don’t stand a chance_. She wasn’t going to give up so easily however, and she left for her family Christmas determined to remain firm in her stance.

          That was, until her mum forced Alex to dress in “boy’s” clothes and cut his hair. Molly had been out visiting an old school chum with her sister Rachel, and when they came back, she found her mum defensively triumphant and Alex hiding in the little box room he was sharing with his cousins, crying into his baby blanket. It all tumbled out: how Gran had cut his hair and made him put on jeans and a Power Ranger’s sweater and had bundled up what she termed his “girl” clothes. “She-she cut up my Belle dress,” Alex had wailed, sobbing into his mum’s jumper, tiny hands clutching desperately at her.

          Once she had settled Alex with a long cuddle and a promise to buy him a new Belle dress, Molly had sat on the floor as her son fell asleep and ruthlessly cut the last thread of intimidation that her mum had held over her. Hands shaking, she fished her mobile out of her trouser pocket and sent a text, which was answered with swiftness, bringing a smile to her wan face, then laid her head back against the wall and stroked Alex’s shorn hair.

          Less than two hours later the doorbell pealed downstairs, and Molly considered getting up, but then decided to remain where she was at, with Alex sprawled in her lap. A few minutes later there was a tapping at the door and she raised her voice softly, bidding them enter. Greg’s face, smiling lips and worried eyes, peeked in at them and brightened at the sight of Molly holding Alex. “Heard a certain duo needed a ride back to London.”

          “Ta,” Molly whispered, smiling tiredly. She was suddenly exhausted, and all she wanted was to go home and tuck Alex into bed with her, “You didn’t have to come so fast, I’m sure you were enjoying Christmas with your family.”

          Greg grinned at her cheekily, “Are you kidding? Myc is downstairs now, tempering his rage at your mum with his absolute joy at escaping my extended family.” He sobered a bit, “You got all your things?”

          “Alex’s are mostly a shambles,” Molly said, mouth tightening with remembered outrage. “My suitcase is in the room next to this one, I need to grab a few things and then we can go.”

          “No need,” Mycroft assured her, looming suddenly behind Greg. “Your sister has packed your bag and obligingly put any gifts belonging to you and Alex in a tote. Your things are in the car.”

          Molly felt tears threaten and blinked rather than let them spill over; she would not show weakness just yet, “Bless you both.”

          Whereas Mycroft would have whisked them directly out the door and into his waiting car, Molly still intended on bidding her sister, her brother in law, and the kids goodbye. It wasn’t their fault that her mum was the way she was. “Stay?” Rachel asked, biting her lip, “I know mum can be a bit much, but she means well. I mean, she’s old fashioned, so to her—”

          “I’m not going to let her abuse my son,” Molly was implacable. Meekness wasn’t a useful tool for a single mother. Daughterly duty and love had kept her from saying anything for far too long. If anyone else had talked to or treated Alex like her mum had, Molly would have long since set them straight or left them behind. Motherhood had given her courage for her child, if not always for herself. “I love you Rach, and we’ll still come to visit you and Harry, but I’m through with letting her get away with this.”

          Mouth wobbling, Rachel hugged her and pressed a kiss on her nephew’s sleepy cheek. Molly passed him to Greg, “Would you wait for me in the car, please?” He adjusted his hold on Alex and pushed a resistant Mycroft out the door ahead of him.

          Her mother was in the kitchen, mouth tight. “You’re leaving?” And then as if she couldn’t help herself, “Mighty _fancy_ pair of friends you have.” _Fancy_ was Sharon Hooper’s code for _gay_. She was an open-minded woman in many ways, but she had an almost out of character disdain for homosexuals.

          “I want you to know how furious I am with you,” Molly started coldly, trying to hold back her tears of rage and sorrow and impending loss, “It is _inconceivable_ to me that you could treat your own grandson this way…he’s just a small child, still learning and growing. To him the world is _without limit_ and the last thing I want to do is tell him he has to live by absolutes. If he wants to dress like a girl some days—bloody hell, if he wants to _be_ a girl some days—that’s his choice. We’re leaving now, and we’re not coming back. Not until you apologize and swear to me that you will never again lay a hand on my child or try and force him into your idea of what he should be.”

          Molly was leaving when her mum called out, “I just want what’s best for him!” She sounded sincere. Molly looked back over her shoulder, mouth still grim, jaw clenched against tears and hurtful words. “Alex’s life will be hard if you let this continue, Molly. Is that what you want for him?”

          “I want him to be happy and true to himself, and he is absolutely those things.”

          Molly exited the house without fanfare, but as soon as the door closed she sagged against the wall, face crumpling, feeling sick. A scrape of a well-shod foot on the pavement, a sense of warmth, and then arms surrounded her, “It’s alright my dear,” Mycroft murmured, gloved hand tucking her head neatly against his Chesterfield, “Cry.”

          “I don’t want Alex to know I’m upset,” Molly gasped softly.

          “He is currently learning about…spark plugs and Cadillac converters with Gregory and Simon.”

          “You mean _catalytic_ converters,” Molly sniffed, taking his neatly pressed handkerchief.

          “Is it catalytic? Dear me, no wonder Gregory laughed.”

          Unbelievably, despite the happenings of the last few hours, she smiled, looking up into the face of her dear and heroic friend. Mycroft’s severe expression softened, “There, that’s better…I hate to see you upset. Nothing you said was undeserved, Molly, although I know you had difficulty in confronting your mother. What she did was unacceptable.” At her expression he raised an eyebrow, “Yes of course I eavesdropped, it’s what I do.”

          Sighing shakily, Molly followed him to the car, smiling automatically to erase any worry lingering in Alex’s mind, but a genuine smile spread across her face when they found Alex, Greg and Simon bent over the inner workings of the car. Alex was listening intently to Simon as he stood on the bumper, one of Greg’s fingers hooked through the belt loop of his tiny trousers so that he could lean over and watch Simon’s pointing finger.

          “Having fun, Toodles?”

          Looking up with a smile, he nodded; Molly’s heart seized again at the sight of his butchered hair. Her wavering resolve to turn back to the house and apologize to her mum hardened and she steeled her heart. Apologies would have to come from the other direction before she was willing to see her again. No one would tarnish her son’s spirit if she could help it; Alex was exactly who he was and Molly wasn’t going to let anyone tell him that there was anything wrong with how he expressed that.

          “I’m sorry we took you away from your family,” Molly murmured to Greg as they were climbing into the car, “I know you don’t get to see Nick much.”

          “He’s going to take the train to London day after tomorrow and stay with me until he has to go back for the new term,” he assured her, smiling easily, “He was up in arms about what happened to Alex and wanted to come with, but I didn’t want to drag him away from my parents too soon, they complain they don’t see him enough as it is.”

          “Perhaps the two of you can come over for dinner one night whilst he’s here,” Molly offered, “Mycroft as well, of course, if he’s free.”

          “Small chance of that,” the other man remarked dryly, gloves off, fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard of the laptop perched on his lap. “I’ve essentially sold my soul to the devil to insure I had five free days to celebrate the Christmas season.”

          “You don’t have a soul?” Alex asked with interest from the ancient but functional car seat Greg’s mum had unearthed from their attic. He peered at the laptop screen, “What’s that?”

          “A satellite picture of North Korea,” Mycroft whispered. “Don’t tell anyone, as you don’t have clearance to see this.”

          “Definitely no soul,” Greg snorted, rolling fond eyes.

          “I have plenty to spare,” Mycroft parried, “I’m a ginger—we steal them, remember?”

          Molly shook her head at Alex’s confused expression, “Pay him no mind, Toodles, Mycroft’s just being silly.”

          “That’s me, silly,” Mycroft murmured, the corner of his mouth tipping up. Greg took her hand in his and put it on his thigh, rubbing his thumb over her skin. Molly relaxed, comforted by her family.

          Hours later, Greg and Mycroft having departed, Molly and Alex, both attired in their warmest pyjamas and fuzziest socks, curled up in her bed and watched Christmas movies. “Happy Christmas, baby,” Molly whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

          “Happy Christmas, mummy,” he responded sleepily, head growing heavy against her breasts.

          It had been an emotional tumult of a day, but together they had survived it. Molly had already promised him new things to replace the ones that had been thrown out or destroyed, and they were planning a trip to the hair salon to fix his uneven hair. In the way of children he already seemed to have put the events of the morning behind him. Happy hours had been spent with Mycroft and Greg, who had made sure they were settled, fed and in good spirits before they left.

          Molly had followed them to the door, and not stopping to second guess herself, had stood on tiptoe to kiss Mycroft on the mouth…first softly and then with a more heartfelt warmth. She heard Greg let out a sort of surprised and pleased sigh behind her, and reaching out blindly, Molly found his hand and squeezed it. Greg stepped closer and nuzzled his face to her neck and kissed her lightly behind her ear. For just a moment Molly existed in perfect harmony and contentment between them, before she broke off the kiss. Mycroft had smiled down at her, not triumphantly, but with a truly touched look. Holding his eyes, Molly turned her head and kissed Greg on the corner of his smiling mouth, laughing when he hummed happily.

          “We’ll find time for dinner, yeah?”

          “If I have to flout diplomatic protocol to arrange it,” Mycroft promised. He knew what Molly’s kiss signified; she was done running scared. It was time to reach for happiness with both hands.

         


	2. Entree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the approach of the New Year, Molly, Greg and Mycroft try to make time for one another in their lives. Molly contemplates some changes to her home arrangements; while Greg suffers a bit of worry over his appeal to Molly; and Mycroft reflects on the positive changes to his life since he began making more of an effort to balance his career with his personal life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays, my dears. I wanted this to be updated sooner, and I wanted it to be a better chapter, but my muse and I are at odds, and I struggled to get this chapter done. I hope it pleases :)

          Once the fragile magic of Christmas had passed, the decorations left behind looked cheap, tawdry and seemed to clutter any space which they arrayed. Hearing the reiteration of carols for what was surely the millionth time was usually depressing—if not downright maddening—and the dirty remnants of snow along the pavement seemed merely to punctuate the post-Christmas malaise. The knowledge that the New Year was approaching fast and once the festivities were over one had only resolutions to abandon and hangovers to nurse was an almost universally depressing one.

          But as John discovered, it was hard to be dreary in Greg’s presence. His normal cheerfulness seemed to have expanded over the last year; it seemed that Mycroft truly made him happy. Not that John really doubted how they felt about one another after seeing Greg and Mycroft together; it was sweet in its own mildly off-putting way. He was happy for his friend’s happiness though, and supposed that if they were all lucky Mycroft Holmes might become somewhat less of an arse than usual. Not that he viewed him as an enemy, or wished him ill…sometimes he was just such a dick. Although perhaps his view was coloured by Sherlock’s ridiculous feud with his brother—even if most of that was for show these days.

          Incredibly, Rosie loved Mycroft; and as she had the beginnings of the same bullshit detector as her mother, John supposed she was a good judgement of character. Seeing her scream with delight and fling herself into a flustered but pleased Mycroft’s arms upon discovering he had adopted a fox in her name had brought tears to more than just John’s eyes on Christmas morning. “Between Greg and Rosie, he’ll be a real boy soon,” John had joked to Sherlock, and then had to explain the reference to his boyfriend.

          “Did Mycroft get called back to work or did you?” John asked, settling in on the barstool next to Greg. “I thought the two of you were staying at your parents for another day and then coming back with Nick?”

          “Actually it wasn’t work intruding for either of us,” Greg explained, raising a hand to the harassed barmaid, “Molly needed us, so we got back to town yesterday. Nicky’s taking the train in tomorrow.”

          “How long’s he staying in town?”

          “Until the day before term starts,” Greg said with a pleased smile; John knew how much it meant to his friend to spend time with his son, especially given that he had hardly seen him for the first two years after he moved out of London with him mum. “He’s begging to be allowed to come to the New Year’s Eve party, but I’m thinking perhaps we should find something else to do. Myc has some mucky muck Embassy affair he has to turn up at in tails and terrify people until midnight, poor duck. He’ll be desperate for his jim-jams and a pot of tea by one.”

          “I’d think he loved that sort of thing,” John mused, “The fancy dress and social terrorizing, I mean.”

          “Don’t get me wrong, he does get a thrill from manipulating situations to the best outcome, but he really does hate being around large groups of people. ‘s why I wouldn’t drag him to the Yard, he’d hate it.”

          “I’m determined to get Sherlock there this year, Mrs. Hudson can’t mind Rosie—I was afraid to ask her what her plans were after she mentioned she was going for a bikini wax,” John winced at the very notion, while Greg looked fairly horrified, which he could sympathize with, having worked assiduously to forget their landlady’s typical overshare, “but Stella is wild to watch Rosie so we’re free. You sure you want to miss the party and miss seeing Sherlock publically intoxicated and mixing with normal people?”

          Greg actually looked torn, “Damn…what a golden opportunity. We’ll have to see; I’m sure we’ll make an appearance, but we won’t stay until midnight.” He smiled, something about his expression causing John to glance at him a second time, “Probably drop in on Molly and Alex.”

          John was proud of his restraint, he made it through three pints without asking what that look meant, and he didn’t even dance around what could have been so urgent that Greg and Mycroft had left early to run Molly back to town. Part of it was legitimate concern, as Molly was his friend, but another part was curiosity. Why had Molly called upon Greg and Mycroft of all people? Why had Greg smiled like that when he mentioned Molly? If it was anyone else, John would have suspected them of an affair, but Molly was a straight arrow, and Greg would never betray Mycroft like that…not only because he truly cared for him, but because it was madness to even contemplate hiding an affair from a Holmes.

          Two hours later, as they were preparing to part ways, Greg had no such qualms about bringing up tender subjects. He looked at John as he shrugged into his too-thin anorak, “You must be freezing in that thing. What happened to that swank leather jacket that Sherlock got you for Christmas?”

          John could feel himself turning red, and he coughed, “Oh, um, it’s being…cleaned…”

          Greg’s face went through several permutations, finally landing on semi-appalled amusement, “Sorry I asked.” His composure cracked and he cackled, “Christ, you two.”

          “Shut it.” Ears burning, John stalked into the night, leaving a highly amused Greg behind him.

         

******

 

          Following a few days off, Molly had been forced to drag herself out of her warm, cozy bed to turn off her alarm and begin getting ready for work. She left Alex asleep while she showered, but once she turned on the blow dryer he shuffled into the loo. He was wearing his Ninja Turtles fleece footie pyjamas, with his newly styled hair flattened on one side and sticking up on the other.

          “Good morning baby, I’m sorry I woke you.”

          “That’s okay.” He sat on the rug and toyed with the ears of his stuffed hippo. “You workin’ today?”

          Her heart twisted at his wistful tone, “Yes, I have to work, but just until four. You’ll stay with Mrs. Peters while I’m at work, and then when I come home we can make tea and you can tell me about your day, okay?”

          He nodded, nibbling absently only the sleeve of his pyjamas, “Mrs. Peters don’t like goin’ out when it’s cold.”

          “Did you want to go out?” Silly question, Molly thought, as she spritzed her hair with hairspray, although the hat she was going to don would no doubt mess with the smooth perfection of her current hair style.

          “Uh huh,” Alex nodded, standing up to watch as she opened her cosmetics drawer and touching a small finger to the half dozen lipsticks, coming to rest on his favourite, “You should wear ‘at one.”

          “That’s a very pretty pink,” Molly agreed, mentally putting her cherry red jumper back in the wardrobe as she applied the deep pink. “Maybe Mrs. Peter’s can sit outside in her coat for a few minutes, so you can play in the back garden.”

          “I want the park.” His lower lip jutted ominously. Alex was a remarkably well-behaved toddler, but he was still prone to sulking, particularly now that she had returned to work. Molly tried not to eat herself up with guilt over that.

          “I know, baby. We’ll go soon, I promise.” Molly stopped putting on her brown mascara, the only thing she habitually wore to work aside from lipstick. Crouching down she put a little lipstick on his lips, smiling when he giggled delightedly. “I think that looks prettier on you than it does on me.”

          Alex shook his head vigorously, throwing his arms around her like a wee monkey and giving her a snuggle. Molly wondered how she had ever gotten along without him in her life. She wondered how she could bear to part with him each day. “You’re the prettiest lady in the world,” he told her earnestly.

          “Thank you, sweetie, I think I’m the luckiest mummy in the world, to have such a sweet boy.” Molly kissed him several times, until his cheeks were as pink as his lips, and he was giggling, “Let me get dressed and I’ll make you breakfast. Do you want eggs and toast or oatmeal?”

          “Can I have brown sugar in my oatmeal?” He bounced excitedly, as she put away her beauty implements and turned off the light.

          “Of course,” Molly hung her toweling robe on the hook on the door and pushed him down the hallway ahead of her.

          “An’ green apples?” He looked back over his shoulder, giving her an appealing, gap-toothed smile.

          “Yes you may,” Molly stopped at her bedroom door, mentally reviewing the contents of her wardrobe.

          “And cimmamum?”

          “You may.” Molly gave his tiny bottom a swat, “Go pick out the clothes you want to wear today while I get dressed.” He ran to obey and she went smiling to pick out something to go with her Alex-approved pink lips. It was a cold day, and she was always chilly during the winter, and the morgue and labs were always cold, bordering on frigid; Molly put on a long pink vest top, layered it with a long-sleeved white Henley printed in tiny pink flowers, and buttoned up a gray and lavender striped cardigan. She had on tights under her trousers, and knee-high wool socks further ensured her coziness. Zipping up her sensible-flat heeled boots, Molly hurried into the kitchen to start the oatmeal cooking as she chopped apples.

          They ate together, Alex chattering happily, legs swinging as he scooped up oatmeal. Once he had finished Molly wiped his face with a damp napkin and cleaned their bowls and the oatmeal pot while he hunted around for the toys he wanted to take downstairs to their neighbor. “Scoot,” Molly urged him, checking her wristwatch, a dainty gold bracelet she had inherited from her grandmother, “We’ve only ten minutes.”

          Alex had very decided opinions regarding his clothing, and they were running behind as they knocked at Mrs. Peter’s door.  The elderly neighbor was a fair and impartial landlady, and was willing and able to watch Alex; she was a very sweet woman and she was a quiet, kind neighbor who wasn’t _too_ nosy about Molly’s affairs, but she was getting on. Molly felt guilty for saddling her with an energetic, if mostly well behaved, three year old, and she worried that Alex wasn’t getting enough exercise, fresh air and stimulation. Maybe Mycroft was right, and she should consider a nanny.

          Not today though, as she didn’t have time to contemplate it. Molly tried not to let her impatience show as she politely answered Mrs. Peter’s questions about her Christmas holiday, and fielded inquiries as to why they had come home early. She hoped she wouldn’t interrogate Alex; the last thing she wanted was any airing of her dirty laundry. Thank heavens Mrs. Peters seemed to take Alex’s affinity for girls clothes in stride, although she had more than once told Molly it was probably _just a phase_ , a phrase which irked her greatly.

           Finally able to extricate herself, Molly kissed Alex, thanked Mrs. Peters, and ran downstairs, hustling for the Tube station. As a single mother she felt overly guilty any time she was even a tiny bit late. Although to be fair, she had always been on time before Alex, and had often worked shifts for her colleagues at considerable inconvenience to herself.

          _I really do need to develop a backbone_ , Molly thought ruefully, body swaying with the train. She was never afraid to stand up for her child, nor for a friend, but too often did she stay silent when it came to herself. Standing up to her mum had been the first time in a long time she’d gotten that angry. “Nothing wrong with liking a peaceful life,” Molly muttered, mind skittering away from the look on her mum’s face. She wasn’t ready to think about that with any degree of calm.

          But liking a peaceful life wasn’t worth staying silent if it hurt Alex. Nothing was worth that. Molly hadn’t made time to tell Le Jie about it yet. She wasn’t sure he needed to know. One the one hand, it cast her family in a poor light, and she didn’t want him to have any ammunition against her if their friendly relationship ever soured. But on the other, he was Alex’s father, even if a rather remote one and he deserved to know that his son had been involved in something like that. It wasn’t something she felt she could adequately explain by text or email though. Calling him meant needing time when Alex wasn’t around, and a little fortification of her nerves.

          Molly didn’t love Le Jie, had never loved him, actually, although for a short time she’d tried to fool herself that she felt something. But it had only ever been a friendly working relationship and casual sex, and once she recognized that it had actually been easier to relate to him with confidence. _I’ve got to stop falling in love with emotionally unavailable arseholes_ , Molly had realized late one night when she left his flat. It was strictly sex, and trying to make it something else would only end up with her mooning after him the way she had with Sherlock for so long, or manipulating him into proposing, the way she had with Tom. Thinking of Tom, a genuinely sweet and lovely man, always filled her with regret. Running into him casually was a fear of hers, as they hadn’t seen one another since the horrible night they’d broken it off. It had taken a long time to stop thinking about the things he said to her in his pain.

          Grateful to be at her stop, Molly jostled her way out of the car, putting away thoughts of Tom and how monumentally she had screwed up his life. It was a brisk five minute walk to the hospital, and if she hurried she would just arrive on time.

 

******

 

          “Detective Inspector,” Molly heard her lab tech Khatim say as the swing doors squeaked a warning that they had a visitor. It had been a quiet morning, the two of them kept busy processing samples and running tests, and Molly was currently sorting through the pile of files, determining what she could delegate and what would have to be handled by her alone.

          Hearing Greg’s name spoken, Molly’s heart-rate increased and she found herself smiling at the thought of seeing him. Looking up, she couldn’t stop the smile, and it was only later that she hoped she hadn’t looked too besotted. She wasn’t worried about what Greg would think, but it wouldn’t do to be too effusive in her work place, “Greg, hi!”

          His smile was surely brighter than the sun at its zenith; she was a fool to ever think she might have stood a chance at resisting him. “Hey, I found myself with some free time and I wondered if you’d like to have lunch with me?”

          “If you can wait for me to finish up a few things first. Give me ten?”

          “Sure.” He smiled easily and Molly hurried to join him.

          Walking to a nearby café they didn’t hold hands, but occasionally their arms brushed, and Molly felt him looking at her more than once; a stupidly happy smile kept tugging at her mouth until she realized there was no reason not to show how happy she was. Meeting Greg’s eyes as he held the door open she beamed at him and drank in his answering smile.

           They ordered their soups and sandwiches and found a tiny two-top table near the back; it was warm and crowded and there was a cheerful din of harried office workers, shopping mums and gossiping elderlies. “Lucky we found a table,” he laughed, looking around, “’s cutthroat in here.”

          “I’ll save your chair if you go for the food,” Molly promised, making herself comfortable.

          “I don’t know,” Greg teased, making a show of looking her up and down, “You don’t look like you could hold your own in a melee.”

          “I’m a very mean and dirty fighter,” Molly informed him gravely, relishing his low chuckle.

          “Deceptively cute and cuddly, I see.”

          “Like a teddy bear with teeth,” Molly joked, baring her own at him. Greg’s foot touched hers under the table and he smiled with hidden meaning, warming her.

          “I never doubt the fearsome qualities of a mum,” Greg said. “Oh God, speaking of…I need to text my ex…make sure she’s okay with me buying Nick some video game or other that he asked for as a Christmas gift but never got.”

          Molly watched him as he texted, eyes on his blunt-tipped fingers with the neatly trimmed nails and faint hint of callouses. “What are those from?” Molly asked when he had put his phone aside.

          He inspected his hands as if he hadn’t really considered them in ages. “Oh, from all the gardening I did at Myc’s this summer. I built those raised beds, y’know. More manual labour than I’ve done in a while.”

          “Wish I’d seen that,” Molly murmured.

          “Myc probably took pictures,” Greg grinned, standing up as they called their order. He was back in a few minutes, balancing their meals, and Molly pushed their drinks aside and helped make room.

          “Were you shirtless?” Molly asked as he blew on his mulligatawny, “Please tell me you were shirtless.”

          Huffing out a laugh, Greg inadvertently splattered soup on the table and put down his spoon to clean it up. “Is that the only thing you can think of?”

          “Yes.” Molly dimpled at him, biting delicately into her veggie panini. She chewed, swallowed, patted demurely at her lips, “In my head you’re wearing nothing aside from a _teeeeeeny_ pair of cut-offs, and you’re covered in a sheen of sweat…” She pretended to swoon. His reddened face was her first clue that Greg was embarrassed. Ducking his head and muttering was her second. “Oh my God, Greg…are you embarrassed?”

          “ _No_. I’m not—I mean…I’m alright but, but I’m old.” He looked faintly anxious, “Don’t know what you’re envisioning, but I’m almost sixteen years older than you Molly and—”

          “You are beautiful,” Molly said, putting her food down to touch the back of his hand, which was balled around his napkin, “I’m not a teenager, Greg, I know your body is lived in. So is mine…I’ve had a kid, for Christ’s sake.”

          “And I’m sure it’s beautiful,” he told her earnestly.

          Molly was aware of the irony; she’d thought she would be the one full of insecurity and doubt, but actually now that she’d admitted what she wanted and they’d taken a step forward, the certainty that they were doing the right thing was incredibly comforting. She was only human, so of course she had her doubts about her body; the last time she’d had sex was with Le Jie and that had been before she even knew she was pregnant. Now she was forty, had carried a child in her body, and despite the weekly yoga and all the running around after Alex, Molly knew her body was lived in.

          Both of their phones buzzed with incoming messages at almost the same moment, and Molly picked her mobile up, a snort bursting out of her as she read Mycroft’s message. “Is yours…?”

          “Yeah,” Greg grinned. As one they turned until they saw the security camera trained at them and Molly flipped it a rude gesture as Greg blew it a kiss. A few people around them gave them a second glance, eyes telegraphing that here was yet another eccentric couple of loonies at loose in the city.

          Their phones buzzed again. **Change the conversation before you talk yourselves out of this** , read the first message. Directly below that was the new message, **The two of you are terribly indiscreet. You would never make field agents**. They got a good chuckle out of that, and Molly sent him a kissy face. Catching sight of the time she exclaimed, “Oh Lord, I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry up!”

          As they finished their meals the two of them discussed drinks at Molly’s on the New Year. “That way I can pop Alex back in bed once we ring in the new year,” Molly planned, “and it isn’t too far for you and Nick to get home.”

          “Myc has to work and will probably go straight home to sleep—he’ll be exhausted from all the mingling. Maybe the three of us could find something to do with the boys the next day? I’ll be off unless someone important is murdered or burgled.”

          “I’m on call,” Molly said, “But if we stay in town I’m available.”

          “And that way if you get called in, we can take Alex for you,” Greg offered, “instead of you having to drop him off with Mrs. Peters.”

          “Oh God, would you?” Molly exclaimed gratefully. “That would be wonderful…she’s very sweet, but she hates to leave her flat. Alex is stir-crazy by the time I come home on the days he doesn’t go to his crèche.”

          “He’ll be in school before you know it,” Greg soothed, “and maybe…maybe Myc had a point, about you needing a nanny.”

          Molly crumpled up her napkin and dropped it on her empty plate, sipping the last of her cooled tea. “I have been thinking that, and it makes a lot of sense. I just don’t feel like the sort of person who has a nanny, for goodness sake.”

          Greg checked his phone and groaned, standing up and gathering their trash, “I hate to say it, but I’m wildly late for getting back. I’d best grab goodies for my team, and a large éclair for Donovan, who’s been running point on the expense reports while I enjoyed myself.” He backed up a few steps, eyes incredibly warm, “Think about the nanny, eh? And I’ll see you Friday night.” He blew her a little kiss, “See you later, beautiful.”

         

******

 

          Hands steepled, Mycroft relaxed in his chair, eyes closed, mind focused on a particularly knotty problem. His lunch was neglected on his blotter, his tea long cooled to room temperature, and he had blocked out the annoying pings of his tablet, laptop and mobile all alerting him of various needs, demands and obligations. Anthea tapped on the door, stuck her head in and withdrew wordlessly when she saw he was occupied. None of these things bothered him.

          Once a possible solution (seven potential outcomes, two of which were going to include at least five percent fatalities) had presented itself, Mycroft buzzed Anthea and dictated his findings to her. Once she had disappeared with the refuse of his untouched meals, he stepped into his private washroom and removed his jacket, waistcoat, tie and shirt and brushed his teeth, washed his face and neck and followed it up with a careful shave. He would have liked time for a shower, but it was proving to be a very busy day, and he couldn’t spare the time. Hair freshly combed and smelling discreetly of cologne, he donned a fresh shirt, redressed in his tie, waistcoat and jacket, and gathered his laptop and briefcase and left by the secret door in the rear of his office.

          Forty-five minutes later his Jaguar pulled into an underground car park in the outer reaches of London, and he exited the vehicle, eyes flitting about as he looked for the ideal location. Ah, just there. He always chose the perfect spot to pose for ultimate intimidation. These little meetings could be so tedious and tawdry, so Mycroft had long ago added what spice he could in designing the greatest visual impact and the most emotionally unsettling atmosphere. It helped pass the time.

          Sherlock wasn’t the only one with a flair for the dramatic.

          Less than fifteen minutes later and he was done, sliding smoothly back into the idling car and directing Jamison to his home. Much though he would have preferred to visit either of his loves, it was growing late, they had their children to enjoy tea with and their evenings in which to find what relaxation they could. Not to mention, he had copious amounts of work still awaiting him, a number of sensitive calls scheduled abroad, and the day’s recap of the most recent affronts to human rights from America to brood over. Per the usual arrangements with his daily woman, there was a meal ready for him to warm, a glass of brandy with his name on it, and eventually, bed.

          Following his brother and his cohort’s dramatic break-in several years ago, not to mention the emotional and mental fallout from the events set in motion by his homicidal younger sister at Sherrinford, Mycroft had struggled with feeling safe and comfortable at his home in Kensington. Eventually he sold it, and had since lived in a smaller, more modern house in Chelsea; it had been a rather rude adjustment at times, living amongst the artistic set that flourished on his street, but once Mycroft had settled in, he decided it wasn’t too irksome. It wasn’t as if he spent much time in his neighborhood. Or he _hadn’t_ , until he began dating Gregory, who had somehow coaxed him into spending one or two Saturday mornings wandering about popping into galleries or cafés, or trying new pubs. He’d even hosted a barbeque in his back garden last spring for heaven’s sake.

          And Greg had further goaded him into hosting a small gathering to introduce Molly and Inspector Dimwit, a move which was destined to failure, as not only was the man too dull and insipid for Molly, but Molly was more perfectly suited for himself. And for Greg…the two of them; the idea still brought a warmth to his heart that he suspected would be anathema to most people’s ideas of the Ice Man. Mycroft had been the one to instigate the beginnings of their relationship, and yet at times he still had difficulty in believing he was not only gloriously entangled with Greg, but also about to embark upon a relationship with Molly as well.

          For so long he had shut himself firmly off from romantic entanglements, so much so that his rare sexual encounters had all the warmth of a business arrangement. At times they _had_ been business arrangements, enacted purely to allow him release without the necessity of attempting to arrange anything discreet, convenient and with the appropriate security safeguards, all whilst still making it clear that a further connection wasn’t desired. He hadn’t wasted time with social dinners in those days, or texting, or weekends away—note to self, he needed to plan something for the three of them, perhaps a long weekend in the Highlands, Andrew owed him a sizeable favour and the files on him indicated his family property was breathtaking—or even the random lunch.

          It wasn’t always possible to dedicate the kind of time that he supposed “normal” partners did, but he was trying. No need for either Gregory nor Molly to know that in his personal planner he had a code to follow to keep him from slipping into bad habits; reminders to call, text, to just reach out even when he felt overwhelmed by the demands upon his time. Amazingly, he had found that often hearing Greg’s voice had the power to introduce a calming effect on his hectic days. Receiving a cheerful text from Molly after he had inquired as to her day could make him recall the peace of drinking tea in her flat, and alleviate the insanity of the interminable meetings he attended.

          Just a few weeks ago he had come to a sort of revelation that no matter how important his career was, it did not love him back. The people that mattered to him deserved as much time and attention as he could dedicate to their happiness. That time and attention were sometimes difficult to negotiate was a fact, but making the effort was as much for himself as for his loves.

          However, it wasn’t a penciled-in reminder, nor duty, that saw him leaning on his island as his plate of lamb and potatoes circled in the microwave, but earnest feeling. He sent an inquiry as to Greg’s day, and the progress of his evening with Nick, along with a promise to make time for him after the duties and festivities of the New Year’s Eve had passed. Not getting a response, he sent a message to Molly. She pinged him back almost immediately, and he smiled, lines of stress and tiredness lifting.

          He had been intending on eating at his desk as he worked, but Mycroft changed direction and pulled up a stool to the island, pouring himself a sparing half glass of wine and digging into his food with one hand while with the other he texted Molly. It was a bit messy, and rather inconvenient, but he found himself smiling as he scraped and rinsed his plate before putting it in the dishwasher. Work demanded enough of his time, he shouldn’t let it take over his every moment.

          Bidding both his loves goodnight (Greg had finally answered back, explaining that he and Nick had run out for kebabs and come back to play some extremely violent video game he was fairly certain his ex would have a coronary over), Mycroft settled into his home office and applied himself to his duties. Two hours and then he would enjoy his brandy and a few chapters of Jane Eyre (his yearly tradition) before bed. As he settled at his desk and powered up his laptop, Mycroft reflected that his half hour lingering over dinner and texting had been surprisingly refreshing.

          Perhaps those idiots that were always going on about work-life balance had something right after all.

 

 


End file.
